Unexpected Healing
by jpgFury
Summary: No good dog would let their master see their weakness. It was that thought which decided Sandor's course when he saw the herbalist's shop, its one window still bright in the gloom. But, he gets more than he was looking for.
1. Chapter 1

**Unexpected Healing**

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Disclaimer: As usual, all the important bits like the Hound, world, etc (pretty much everything but the situation) are not mine – GRRM owns it all.

a/n: I haven't tried to emulate GRRM's works – I simply don't have the skill. Instead, I've simply borrowed the Hound for a wee while since GRRM didn't take very good care of such an interesting character... sigh. And don't get me started on his treatment of poor Beric, either!

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_**Prologue**_

The last three days had been a blur of wine sinks and brothels as Sandor put his winnings from the Hand's tourney to good use.

The twenty thousand gold awarded to the Hound when Loras Tyrell ceded the field opened the doors of the city's finest establishments, as well as the legs of the city's finest whores. The only problems with such places, as Sandor soon found, were the patrons. The young nobles and wealthy traders that frequented them had pointedly ignored his presence when he was simply Joffrey's Hound. Now, they practically fell over themselves to talk to the champion of the Hand's Tourney – the man who had faced his own brother to save the much loved Knight of Flowers. They had no interest in him, he knew, only in the stories they would have to tell their friends of their encounter with the Hand's Champion, or the Prince's rabid dog as they called him when they thought he couldn't hear. Lickspittles and kiss asses, the lot of them.

The bards of King's Landing had already composed a score of songs about the epic swordfight. Most romanticised it past recognition. A couple even went so far as to paint over his infamy and cast him as the noble hero - a sentiment he loudly scoffed the first time he heard it. Not a one of them had guessed the real reason he stepped onto the field and deflected his brother's wrath from the boy. Even if they had, most would have ignored it. Bards were known to prefer their own version of events over the truth, especially if their version was better suited for parting listeners from their coin. Neither the empathy he felt for the Tyrell boy nor the burning surge of hatred for his brother were suitable for rousing song.

For the first night and the better part of the next day, he tried to ignore the attempts at conversation from young men drunk on wine and their own self-worth, but it quickly soured the wine and killed his enthusiasm for anything else. Finally, having lost what little patience he started with, the Hound told a particularly insistent young man exactly where to go and what do to himself. If he had been looking for a fight, or deep enough into his cups not to care, he would have reinforced his words with his blade. As it was, he had to resort to fists when the man took offense to his words and wouldn't let it lie. The conversation had ended with Sandor leaving the pompous jackass and his personal guardsmen bruised and bleeding on the carpets of a well renowned brothel. He decided to look for his pleasures elsewhere after that.

So it was that instead of seeking his entertainment in places catering to the pleasures of the wealthy, those that were usually out of reach for a cur like him, Sandor sought out places only slightly better than his usual haunts in the city's slews. The types of establishments where patrons respected his clear wish for privacy, but where both the women and the wine were of a good quality.

Not that wine or whores, no matter the quality, could chase away the thoughts he was trying to avoid for very long.

At first he tried not to think of Sansa, of the fear and revulsion so clear whenever he drew near, or of her pity after he told her how he'd earned the scars that so repulsed her.

When the foolish little bird had tried to compliment Gregor's 'performance' in the joust, the Hound had wanted to shake the stupid, romantic notions right out of her pretty little head. He wanted to shock her out of her misplaced ideals and make her see that there was nothing honourable or chivalrous about how Gregor had killed that boy. So he had told her about the little wooden knight and about the brazier. Then her disgust had been replaced by pity, but Sandor didn't want pity from anyone; especially not from some pretty, empty-headed girl who made him feel like he was worth less than the dirt under her slippers. So he'd he threatened to kill her if she told anyone what he had drunkenly divulged, and had wiped the pity right off her beautiful face.

But the look stayed with him afterwards. It unmanned him and haunted him all that first night, even as he sweated and thrust above the whores or stared into the bottom of his mug. The next day when Sansa's delicate features came to him again as he emptied himself into some whore, he realised that he was going to have to work harder at putting the little bird out of his mind. She wasn't meant for a cur like him. And so he began drinking in earnest.

Two days and a vast quantity of wine later he had nearly succeeded in obliterating any memory of the girl from his mind.

**Chapter 1**

Sandor sat in the corner of a dimly lit tavern and stared blearily into the mug in his hands. The last few days were a familiar blur. He remembered drinking and he remembered women - young and beautiful – the type of whores who knew how to make a man come back for more with their moaning and writhing, but who still refused to look him fully in the face. Or maybe that was just the wine, because he certainly recalled drinking far more than he'd had cause to in a long time. That type of drinking had helped him through the years before he fled his home, but had become rarer since he'd sworn his sword to the golden queen's service.

But now he was in a tavern, not a brothel, and as the effects of the alcohol started to wear off, he took stock of his surroundings.

His small table was littered with the remains of a joint of meat, a bread trencher and surprisingly only two empty flasks. The table was near the door to the kitchens, with a good view of the front entrance at the other end of the room. It was a still spot on the edge of the noisy, swirling press of bodies around the bar, given a wide birth by the other patrons and the serving girls unless they were headed to the kitchens. From his choice of where to sit, he knew he'd retained some sense of what he was about when he'd entered.

He wasn't exactly sure where in the city the place was, but one of the market squares near the Great Sept seemed like a good bet. Given the look of the other patrons and the fact that the mug in his hands was made from delicate pottery, not carved wood or thick brown clay, he was certain he wasn't in the slews.

An unpleasant, metallic tang in the back of his throat told him his stomach had rebelled some time earlier in the day. That was hardly surprising given how light his belt pouch felt and the throbbing of his head.

He reached out and grabbed the arm of a serving girl as she slipped past on her way to the kitchens. He gave an involuntary grunt of pain as his shoulder protested at the use. The girl squeaked in alarm, barely managing to hold on to the mugs in her arms as she turned. "Ye...es, my l..lord?"

"What day...?" The end of the question was lost in a rasping cough.

"Mother's. Today is the day of the Mother. For an hour or so longer, at the least."

Three days since the tourney. Three days of binging and whoring, and he hadn't even emptied his purse yet. But the Hound was expected back at the Red Keep to take up his role as the prince's protector later the next day.

The girl pulled out of his grip and hastily stepped back out of reach.

Pushing himself to his feet, he dropped a handful of copper pennies and silver stags on the table without bothering to count. "Horse. Get me my horse." The world seemed to tilt and heave under his feet as he stood glaring at the serving girl with bleary eyes.

"Yes, of course, Ser."

"Don't call me Ser." The response was snarled to the empty air for the girl had scurried off, so eager to be away from him that she all but ran to the door to call for his horse. His _victory_ hadn't changed some things, it seemed.

He shook his head with disgust. His damned shoulder was going to be a problem if a slip of a girl could break free from his grasp.

Three days ago, he'd been so caught up in the fight with his brother, in the thrill and the terror of finally facing the bastard on equal ground with a naked sword in his hands, that he hadn't noticed his shoulder, or the few other lesser bruises, until later. Now, however, the throbbing in his shoulder seemed to resonate in time with both the beating of his heart and the pounding in his head. Still swollen and aching, Sandor knew from experience that there would be a livid, purple bruise the size of two fists where the Kingslayer's lance had struck. His seat on Stranger had been precarious for a few seconds as he struggled to regain his balance after the blow and it had left his shield arm tingling for hours afterwards. Now, after sitting and thinning his blood with wine, it was stiff and weak.

Holding himself carefully upright, Sandor strode to the door with the exaggerated care of someone well into his cups. The hubbub around the bar stilled as he drew near. As he passed, the conversations started again with the telling hushed tones of gossip. Such a response was nothing new to him. He ducked through the doorway and into the rainy night.

When he stepped out from under the low eaves, he saw the tavern's courtyard did indeed open onto a small market square in the shadow of Balor's Sept. The painted sign swinging wildly in the wind proclaimed the place to be The Plucked Goose, a tavern popular with the lesser nobles of King's Landing. The Goose's small cobbled yard was bordered by a stable on one side and a darkened shop on the other, leaving the tavern well back from the square.

A loud thumping, audible even over the blustering wind, came from the direction of the stables. Sandor's mouth twitched. Stranger, the foul tempered beast, would be difficult enough to handle after having been away from his usual stables for the past few days. He would be absolutely diabolical with being saddled in the middle of the night. If there had been any pity lift in him, Sandor would have felt bad for the stableman who had to fetch his horse that night.

He stepped down into the courtyard as it started to spin. His stomach heaved and he leaned over and emptied his stomach beside the horse trough. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and spat repeatedly. The rain ran down his face while he stood by the trough and tried to rid his mouth of the bitter aftertaste. His head felt as though something were trying to breakout through his temples and even the diffuse light of the lanterns by the door made his eyes squint up in pain. The queasy, unsettled feeling started to grow again in the pit of his stomach.

Without hesitation, he turned back to the trough and thrust his head into the cold, murky water. He forced himself to stay under until his lungs ached, finally pulling up in a great shower of water and spluttered curses. Coughing roughly, he lurched against the side of the tavern and grabbed the wall to keep himself upright. Rivulets of chill water poured down his back, flowing under his cloak and soaking him from the inside out. His breathing was heavy as his shoulder flared angrily, but the shock of the dunking cleared the queasy, roiling sensation and helped bring everything into focus.

Sandor watched as the man struggled to lead Stranger out of the stable doors, his head clearer than it had been in days. The horse balked at the wind and rain, throwing up his head and planting his feet firmly. The man lacked the strength to force the horse out, so it became a contest of wills – one that the stallioning was winning. The more the stableman tried to coax and cajole, the more stubborn Sandor's mount became. Stanger snapped at the man as he tried once more to shove the horse through the gap and into the storm. The man raised a crop to drive reticent beast out the doors.

Before the blow could fall, Sandor was on him. A great, calloused hand pinned the stableman to the wall by his throat; the other grabbed the raised arm. Despite the pain in his shoulder, Sandor lifted the man to his toes. "Hit my horse, and you'll regret it." He squeezed the man's wrist until he felt bones shift under his grip. The crop fell to the ground, unused. Shoulder screaming in pain, Sandor released the man before his arm gave out.

Oblivious to the violence he had nearly caused, Stranger nudged his master in the back as though urging him to hurry up. The Hound ignored the man still pressed back against the wall and turned to face the beast. He gave the great head a single pat before running his hands over the horse's legs, checking he hadn't injured himself with all the kicking earlier. He was in good condition and had obviously been well cared for, despite the near whipping. Sandor gave the girth a final yank and pulled it tight with a practiced knee to his mount's side.

Stranger stood still as Sandor pulled himself into the saddle. He fumbled with his belt pouch and finally managed to pull out a copper, which he tossed at the stableman's boots. The shock was clear on the man's face, even in the dim light. "No crop next time," Sandor instructed as he pulled the horse's head around and walked him out of the courtyard.

Pain lanced down his arm and across his chest with each clop of the stallion's hooves. Teeth gritted, Sandor realised that he needed to do something about his shoulder if he was going to take up his duties the next day. It was either that, or beg the day off. But there was no way any self respecting dog would let their master see such weakness.

When he saw the herbalist's shop, its one window still bright despite the hour, he pulled Stranger around. The herbalist would have something to take the edge off until he healed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Unexpected Healing**

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Disclaimer: As usual, all the important bits like the Hound, world, etc (pretty much everything but the situation) are not mine – GRRM owns it all. (I mean, seriously, what did you expect – this _is_ a fanfic site...)

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**Chapter 2**

A bell chimed softly as Sandor ducked through the doorway and stepped into the small herbalist's shop. Winding his way through the shop's labyrinthine interior, the tall swordsman made his way towards the back counter, shoulders brushing shelves filled with glass vials, ceramic jars, and bundles of plants. His heavy tread caused the glasses to clink together sharply as he strode deeper into the warm, dimly lit space. Drying herbs hung from the rafters, and the smell of dried herbs and burning incense blended not unpleasantly with the medicinal tang that wafted from the back of the room.

Two lanterns hung above the far counter and illuminated an ancient, frail-looking man who waited patiently as a woman ground something in a large mortar. Without pausing in her grinding, the herbalist added several ingredients from the array of vials and bowls on the bench top. She spoke softly to the elderly man as she worked. The woman was little more than a girl, Sandor noted in surprise as she looked up briefly from her work.

She smiled in greeting as Sandor approached. "If you can wait a couple of moments, I'm nearly finished here. You look like you could use a bit of warming and refreshment, friend. Why don't you take a seat by fire, over there, and dry off a bit? There's tea ready if you wish."

Water dripped from the thick green cloak, pooling on the wooden floor as the Hound considered telling the old man to bugger off and simply demanding the girl help him now. In his wine-soaked state, he couldn't be bothered pressing the issue. "Fine, just don't be long," he rasped and turned back towards the fireplace near the entrance.

Two chairs and a stool were arranged around a small table to the side of the fire. A kettle hung above the small fire and a set of brown earthenware mugs sat on the table, chipped with hard use, but clean. Sandor settled himself into one of the chairs so he could keep one eye on the two at the counter and the other eye on the entrance to the shop. He stretched his legs out towards the fire and warmth quickly began to creep into the damp wool he kept wrapped around himself.

Sandor tried to remain vigilant as he listened to the quiet conversation in the back and watched the door. He fidgeted in annoyance, shifting his sword at his hip, resting his hand on the hilt as the scabbard settled against the side of the chair.

His heavy cloak began to steam with the warmth of the fire and the familiar smell of wet wool filled his nose, almost overpowering the smells of the shop. The soporific effects of wine and warmth began to assert themselves and Sandor's eyes drifted shut. His head fell back to rest against the high back of the chair and his hands dropped to his side, relaxed, as he slipped deeper into sleep.

xxxxxx

"I'll be fine, Jensen. Get yourself home while there's a break in this weather." With a steadying hand on his elbow, the young woman ushered the hunched, old man towards the door.

"But that man," he whispered and shot the sleeping figure a worried glance. "You don't even know who he is, Nahayria."

"Don't worry about me, Jensen. Killian is just upstairs if I need anything," she reassured her would-be protector and guided him closer to the shop's entrance.

"Well, if your brother's here..." The elderly man hesitated as he tried to peer under the cloak's deep hood. While he looked back, Nahayria pulled the door open.

"I appreciate your concern, Jensen. Now remember, the ointment works best if used _before_ you go out in the cold."

"Alright, my dear. Just be careful."

"I will, and goodnight." Nahayria stood in the doorway and watched the ancient man hobble down the street, maintaining her vigil as he made his way to The Plucked Goose. At first, the wind simply swirled around her ankles blowing a handful of leaves into the room behind her, but as Jensen pushed through the door of the tavern, the rain started in earnest again and a strong gust drove her backwards. Staggering with the force of the wind, she grabbed the doorframe to steady herself and shut the door with her shoulder. Luckily the lantern by the door had been sheltered from the blast, but fire flared and spat like and angry tomcat.

A quick glance over her shoulder showed the stranger was still asleep. It had been a long day for the young healer and she took a moment to savour the quiet as she looked out the window at the rain. The sounds of wind and fire were underscored by a rumbling snore from the cloaked figure. It was a surprisingly peaceful sound and she was suddenly loath to wake him so she lingered over putting the shop to rights. She replaced bundles of herbs and containers that had been pushed over by the wind. Eventually, she ran out of things to tidy so she took the lantern from the window and turned to the man by the fire.

The gust of air that had driven her back into the shop and stirred the fire had pushed the green hood partway back, exposing a scarred and drawn visage. From the smell of him, she could tell that he was sleeping the drunkard's dreamless slumber. From the look of him, she decided that he most probably deserved it.

Nahayria set the lantern on the table and looked down at the horror that had once been a face. The left side of the man's head was a ruin, his features obliterated by a shapeless mass of blackened flesh. The scarring was horrendous; it was far, far worse than anything she'd ever seen. In contrast, the right side was relatively unmarked, if one could ignore the deep lines around his eye and creasing his brow. It would take more than sleep to erase the lines scored by such pain.

Looking at the gaunt, drawn face it was hard to imagine what the swordsman would have looked like had he not been burned. On someone else the deep brow, sharp cheekbones, and hooked nose might have been distinguishing and given them a haughty, noble countenance. Now, they only gave the man a hard and unkind look. Little wonder that he drank until he passed out.

Saddened by what she saw, Nahayria moved to the fireplace and began adding ingredients to the kettle for a tea that would help clear his blood and prevent a morning-after headache. She placed the steaming kettle beside the two cups on the table and lit a small clump of incense to help mask the sour smell of old wine.

While she waited for the tea to brew, she drew the stool closer to the man's chair and sat down to wait, careful to avoid the sword at his side. As she watched, the scars around his mouth twitched violently. His brow furrowed even deeper and he groaned softly. It was a low animal sound that hurt just to hear it.

Without thought, she reached out to sooth him, the back of her fingers brushing his brow. Still asleep, the man turned his head slightly towards the source of the touch - just like a baby would. It was an unbidden, surprisingly tender response.

There were places where the flesh had been burned off nearly to the bone. Places where the tissue that remained was an angry, raw red. She carefully avoided touching these spots so as to not cause any more pain, but she studied them with a healer's practiced eye.

As gently as possible, she skimmed her finger tips lower over the burned man's temple until they rested just below his left eye where a thick ridge of scar tissue started. The mark ran down to his jaw line and a filigree of smaller scars crisscrossed the raised surface. The tension was palpable as she cupped the scarred cheek gently in her small hand. Erratic twitches jumped under her palm as the tightly interwoven scars pulled the flesh in different directions. The muscles underneath the twisted mass were constantly straining and even in sleep, tension didn't truly leave the jaw.

There were things she could have done to reduce the damage were it still freshly burned, but too much time had passed and they wouldn't help now. The residual pain could be managed, but if the man earned his keep by the sword as it appeared, he wouldn't stand to have his reactions constantly dulled. That took away any solutions that came immediately to mind but perhaps the reddened flesh in the fissures could be helped.

Nahayria was so caught up in examining the old wounds that she failed to note when her subject shrugged off the hazy dream her touch had spawned and opened his eyes. She was pulled out of her thoughts only when her wrist was suddenly caught up roughly in an iron grip and a deep voice snarled at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

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Like most others here, I want to improve my writing, so any thoughts on why you don't like it could be really useful – feel free to send me a private message with your thoughts. Is the pacing too slow? Too cliché? Seriously, I won't bite, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Unexpected Healing**

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Disclaimer: As usual, all the important bits like the Hound, world, etc (pretty much everything but the situation) are not mine – GRRM owns it all.

I've already pre-ordered the next book. Roll on July! Now if only we had HBO down here, it would truly be a good year. Oh well, maybe the DVD will come out soon...

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**Chapter 3**

At first Sandor drifted in the dreamless sleep he so craved – a sleep equally devoid of memory and of desire – but after some time he slowly began to surface from his reprieve. Eyes still closed, more asleep than not, he listened to the sounds of wind and rain, and tried remember where exactly he was.

This wasn't his room in the Red Keep for it was little more than a windowless cell and the stonework far too thick for him to hear even the worst weather. An inn or brothel, perhaps... But no, the smell wasn't right. Instead of the familiar odour of ale, unwashed bodies, and lust all he could detect was the musk of incense and drying herbs. He breathed deeply, letting the fragrant air soothe his raw throat.

It came back to him in fragments – leaving some tavern and making his way back to the keep, seeing the herbalist's still alight and settling in to wait in front of the fire._ Waiting_... he was still waiting for the girl. The peaceful feeling faded as his impatience began to resurface.

Falling asleep while he waited had been foolish. His skill was such that even deep in his cups he had little to fear from anyone living or dead, but asleep he was vulnerable. If his brother's men found him asleep, all his prowess would count for nothing. A quick death would be a blessing but not one he was likely to be granted were they to happen across him while he was so vulnerable. It had been a stupid mistake, and not one he would repeat.

With that thought, came an awareness of someone nearby – very near. He felt something brush the burned side of his face. The sensation, while not painful, was unsettling. It was a faint pressure, a breath of warmth and contact, more sensed than truly felt.

One hand dropped to his sword hilt while the other snaked out to grab at the offending arm. His eyes snapped open and he was surprised to see it was the healer he held, not one of his brother's men. Unable to rise without upsetting the table or the girl, he kept his seat but readied himself to move quickly should there be a need. He could handle a mere girl, but he didn't know what she was about and that made him cautious. A little caution had helped to ensure he stayed out of his brother's reach so far. He wasn't about to forgo it now simply for a pretty face.

"What the hell are you doing?" The grip on her wrist was sure but his voice was thick and unsteady to his own ears.

The girl sat close against him and her hand cupped his ruined cheek. Sandor pulled her hand away so he could focus on the face so near to him. His head was still thick with wine and it made everything seem unreal, like some fevered dream. He didn't know what the girl was doing or why she was touching him, but he was sober enough to know he did not like it.

The young woman didn't take her eyes off his scars, even when he gripped her wrist tighter. There was no fear, no disgust, and no malice in the gaze riveted on him. Just an avid expression he couldn't identify.

"Most of this is well healed, but some spots are barely covered over. How long ago were you burned?"

The question was not what he expected to hear – not at all. "What do you care?" The threatening snarl seemed to wash over his captive without notice. Neither did she acknowledge the tight grip he had on her arm.

"I'm a healer. I want to help."

Sandor snorted loudly."You're no healer, girl. Only a swindler or a fool would tell me they could heal this." He tossed his head and lank, dark hair fell back revealing the hole where his ear should have been. The scar tissue extended around to the back of his head and down his neck like a gorget of twisted flesh.

There was no shock or revulsion on the girl's face when she looked at the features normally hidden behind thin, black hair. His attempt to cow her had failed and it only served to stoke his anger. Not like Joff's pretty little song bird with her cowering and tears.

"I never said I could heal it, but I know something that might..."

"Stop it!" Unable to bear the contact with her any longer, Sandor thrust her arm away from him. He wasn't naive enough to think that his face could be healed. Not any more. "Bullshit. There is _nothing_ you can do." He lurched to his feet, breathing heavily. His frustration was palpable as he loomed over the girl on the stool and watched her finally recoil from him.

The feelings of disillusionment and hopelessness he buried under a mountain of indifference were being unearthed by some stupid girl's insistence that she could help him. They hit him harder than he expected after all this time.

For years, he'd held onto the hope that maybe something could be done to lessen the damage to his face. Something that would help to lessen the fear and revulsion he saw in others' eyes when they looked at him. He'd sought out every healer, greenwoman, and maester he could find. Plenty of them had said they could help, for a price of course, so he had paid and paid and paid, but not a one of them had done anything that made a bit of difference. Some of the 'cures' he'd tried had probably caused more damage to the already injured flesh, but he'd kept hoping until at fifteen years of age he tried a draught that the healer assured him would help the scars fade. The drink had left him violently sick for days. Once the vomiting and cramps had passed, his scars were bright against the pallor of illness and no better than they had been before. After that experience, he refused to hope any longer.

The girl steadied herself and looked up at him. "There's nothing I can do about the scarring, but the other spots... I know they still pain you." She spoke softly and calmly, trying to soothe him with her voice, like she would a snarling beast or a frightened child. "The rawness and the pulling, it gets worse when it's cold out, or when your face is in the sun," she continued when he didn't move any further away. She shifted her gaze briefly to the leather dog's head on his tunic. "You're probably outside a lot with your work... Look, it won't be pretty, but if I can get the reddened places to thicken up, they won't be so tender."

Mellowed by the wine and the warmth, Sandor couldn't hold onto his anger. The girl was nothing if not persistent, he would give her that. It was rare enough that anyone looked him full in the face; for someone to do it with such an earnest expression was not something he knew how to respond to. She wasn't asking for coin or favours, just a chance to ply her trade. The request for more might come later of course, like with the first woman he'd had after the tourney, but somehow he didn't think she would make such an appeal. And if she wasn't after his coin, then she actually thought she could help.

He considered telling her exactly where to put her concern, but his shoulder wasn't going to loosen up quick enough on its own and he knew he wouldn't find anywhere else at this time of night. While he neither wanted nor needed her concern, he did need her skills.

"Fine." He dropped heavily into the chair without taking his eyes from the healer. "But keep your bloody hands off me."


	4. Chapter 4

Someone 'kindly', and publicly, pointed out on my dA page that GRRM does not like people using his characters or world in fanfic. I did some digging and his (not a) blog has an entry that is pretty clear about his views. )

While I disagree with some of his arguments, after much soul searching, I have decided to not continue this story and will take it down soon.

While I don't appreciate the negative and somewhat condescending comments about 'what is called fan fiction today' in GRRM's post, I feel I need to respect his request not to use his stuff. The master doesn't like others playing with his toys and I can't ignore that.

I wonder, however, where that leaves the 'real artists' who make a picture of a character or scenario that doesn't fit with the original author's view of things... Will they eventually get the same treatment, or is it ok because it's a different medium they use?

Anyways, thanks to everyone for reading as far as you did.


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